


odi et amo

by acosmic



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Revolutionary Girl Utena Fusion, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 13:33:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18874198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acosmic/pseuds/acosmic
Summary: Intermission, calls the Greek Chorus. A message for the Singularity:Duel me in the arena tonight.—because sandalphon is not enough, and thinks dueling the singularity will give him that. revolutionary girl utena black rose arc au.





	odi et amo

**Author's Note:**

> "i hate and i love"—title from Catullus 85
> 
> i started this after wmtsb2 while doing my djeeta tarot fic so it's OLD lol

The grounds are a labyrinthine affair, all shifting paths that lead nowhere or to different places depending on the time of day, day of the week, or the position of Venus, requiring so much backtracking that it was really a surprise that anyone got anywhere at all. 

The only one who could easily find his way around was Lu— 

Sandalphon cuts across the green. He has,  _ had  _ since he was supposed to be there twenty minutes ago, an interview at the memorial hall. 

And he finds it. Like all the buildings on campus, it’s a gilded white building, all delicate filigree and dozens of arching windows. He takes a moment to pull aside the ivy around the plaque. He’s already late, a few moments don’t mean anything.

It reads: Memorial Hall. In memoriam of what is uncertain. Sandalphon hadn’t expected anything but he’s vaguely disappointed. Only  _ vaguely _ because he doesn’t care about what goes on. Truly. It’s not his domain so there’s no reason to care, not that he needs a reason to not care. He doesn’t need a reason to do anything, which is why he kicks the plaque. 

He limps into the hall. 

There is a sign that sits on a chair, one in a line of the same ones that sit in the garden, that directs him to a small room which, to his disinterested surprise, begins to move down after he enters it. There’s another one of those chairs, which he sits in. It feels right until he hears the interviewer.

The interviewer’s voice is familiar, something close to comforting, but there’s a cold edge that Sandalphon doesn’t know. 

Doesn’t know, doesn’t want to know.

The voice is so very bored. He hums in agreement as Sandalphon spits out his heart, rips down the frames on the walls, slams the pretty garden chair into the wall, tears his nails into his own skin, but there’s nothing in there at all.

The lift stops. Sandalphon can’t remember anything he said, anything the voice said. There’s a red line across the palm of his hand and a black feather in it. He closes his fist around it as the blood wells up and the voice says something he already knew.

_ —Your only option is to revolutionize the world. _

* * *

Sandalpon takes a visit to the tower to visit an old friend, his oldest friend he supposes on further thought.

The tower has other more official, more weighty names backed by a millennia and more of history, but he thinks there’s power in taking away a name, so: the tower.

Sandalphon’s oldest friend doesn’t always reside there, always with better, more important work to do, but he has a feeling, gifted from the ring on his finger. 

From just inside the entrance, He smiles at Sandalphon and He’s still smiling even when Sandalphon embraces Him and smiling still even when Sandalphon rips the sword from His chest.

Smiling even with the disappointment in His eyes. Smiling as though He expected it.

* * *

Intermission, calls the Greek Chorus. A message for the Singularity:  _ Duel me in the arena tonight _ .

_ “Extra! Extra! Extra!” _

_ “At last, at last, at last—a letter from one of our viewers: The person I love is a sun and yet I am but a planet revolving around him, no matter what I can’t be strong, can’t be of value, can’t be important to Him. I just want to be told that I—” _

_ “Ooh, two in one day: The one I love doesn’t understand His own value, but if He knows, then I don’t know if He can stay by my side, as we are, as eq—”  _

“Can’t you just talk to each other?”

Djeeta rips the envelope in half.

* * *

It’s a thousand desks with a thousand mugs of coffee on top, steam coming off of them. It’s the heavy, bitter aroma that makes him sick. It’s the glint of the sword in his grip.

It’s how he’ll never be good enough and there’s nothing, absolutely nothing, that he can do about it. He’ll never be good enough to have a purpose and he’ll never be enough of  _ anything  _ for Lucifer to look at him, for Lucifer to need him, for Lucifer, for Lucifer, for  _ Lucifer _ . 

It’s how he’ll defeat the Singularity and take the girl in blue. It’s how he’ll ruin the world Lucifer loves.

It’s the only way Sandalphon can live.

* * *

_ “There are such things as miracles in this world, Sandalphon. Miracles are a response to wishes. I think meeting you was a miracle.” _

_ What was the wish you had, before me? _

Sandalphon hadn’t asked it back then, it had been on the tip of his tongue, but there was something in Lucifer’s eyes that made him pause.

Longing or lonesomeness or love.

It might have been all of them.

He wishes he had asked. He wishes he had argued against it, wishes he hadn’t believed in miracles and wishes so easily, even when he’s wishing so desperately now. 

This is the miracle: the Singularity disarmed with her sword thrown up into the air, and Sandalphon with his against her throat. His win is practically guaranteed and he smiles because he knows this, but the sword comes down from the sky, and he learns the space between  _ practically guaranteed _ and  _ guaranteed _ .

_ There are no such things as miracles in this world, Lucifer. At least, not for me. _

Sandalphon falls. The coffee, overturned, spills in rivers from the desks. What a mess, who’s going to clean it up?

He hears the girl in blue running towards him. He’s closed his eyes at some point, somewhere between the sword and himself falling, but he opens them to see the girl in blue—no, not the girl in blue but—Lyria (a loser has to heed the wishes of winners and what felt like a long time ago she had asked him  _ we’re friends, aren’t we? _ ) standing above him looking unbearably sad.

Lyria holds out her hand and he doesn’t take it. 

Sandalphon laughs and laughs into the empty blue sky and Djeeta watches him.

“You really are—”

“Pathetic?”

“Pitiable.”

The fact that there’s no pity in her voice only makes him laugh harder and harder until the world turns black.

* * *

Most afternoons the garden, sunlit and lush in its greenery, remains empty except for one person. There’s only one table and most don’t dare bring their own in order to avoid the wrath of its occupant.

“You really like coffee, huh,” Djeeta says, sliding into the seat across from Sandalphon. There’s a pot of coffee and several cups, cracked porcelain and clean, smooth glass, arranged on the table.

She watches his face, looking for a sign of remembering, of forgetting, of having no memory of the arena in the sky to begin with. 

Sandalphon smiles and laughs.  _ Nonsense. _

“I hate it. It’s absolutely disgusting.” 

He pours her a cup.

**Author's Note:**

> btw, the interviewer was lucilius
> 
> talk to me on [twitter dot com](https://twitter.com/florialiae) if you'd like
> 
> thank you for reading, as always.


End file.
